The first week at Camp Hell on Earth was both emotionally draining and mentally numbing. Stuck in a job that requires zero mental stimulation makes for a somnambulant and zombie-like state of mind. While the sun beams down with ambitious resolve, I am reminded of poor Prometheus, chained to a rock on a mountain while a giant ass-hole eagle pecked out his liver every day. And then every night it regenerated so that the next day he would go through the same hell. Until one day, Hercules rescued him from this hell.
And so it is…so maybe I’m not chained to a rock while my liver is pecked out by a psychotic bird with a taste for offal, but I’m still stuck in what seems like daily torture. Between missing my family to the daily discomforts that this place has to offer, it’s only fitting that I wish for a hero to come and rescue me. But as Regina Spektor said “I’m the hero of the story, I don’t need to be saved.” The only thing that can save me at this point is myself and a little bit (about ten months) of time.
So perhaps I’ll get used to the sweltering heat, the loneliness, the separation, the meaningless work, the stupid people, the sand, and everything else that comes with this wretched place. Perhaps I’ll forget what it’s like to walk barefoot in the fresh dewy grass, or the smells of farmer’s markets, or the feel of sea spray during those EWTGPAC morning beach runs.
One thing is certain: I’ll never forget the warm scent of Helena’s face, the way her soft ringlets curl around my fingers, the way her nose wrinkles when she smiles, and how she throws her head back when she laughs, as if this one moment in time is the funniest most amazing moment ever. And as long as I can remember that, no amount of sun, work, or stupid people can really keep me chained to that rock.
Take that, stupid bird.